


the Frog Prince

by awkwardsorta



Series: David Villa's Soulpatch is Magic [2]
Category: Football RPF
Genre: Gen, crackfic, fairytales - Freeform, la roja
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-02
Updated: 2012-08-02
Packaged: 2017-11-14 09:41:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,092
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/513884
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/awkwardsorta/pseuds/awkwardsorta
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Cesc turns into a frog at the Euros. Shenanigans! </p><p>BECAUSE <a href="http://mysticaltramping.tumblr.com/post/25356827671/geri-saving-a-frog">THIS</a> aka it actually happened there are gifs.</p>
            </blockquote>





	the Frog Prince

**Author's Note:**

> David Villa has a magic soulpatch, and doesn't always use it for good.

Gerard disappears five times in a training session that lasts two hours, and each time he reappears with Cesc. In the end, Del Bosque gets fed up. "Gerard," he says at the sixth time of Gerard creeping furtively back to the changing rooms. "Where are you going?"

Gerard jumps, guiltily, and looks around. His hands are cupped in front of him. "Nothing," he says. "I mean, nowhere. No just back to the changing rooms."

"I have to pee," he says. Del Bosque frowns.

"Okay," Gerard says, "That's not exactly true. But don't get mad okay."

"It's just," he says. "Cesc keeps turning into a frog."

\---

Del Bosque thinks Gerard is winding him up, because if Gerard isn’t winding at least one person up at any hour of the day, then he’s sick. And even then, he’s usually winding someone up. Except then Cesc is standing right in front of him when, for the seventh time in the day, he shrinks down to the size of a very small, very cute frog.

“Ribbet,” Cesc says, hopping out of the path of Busquets.

“What,” says Del Bosque, and,

“For fuck’s sake,” Gerard says, and scoops Cesc up. “Be right back.”

But of course everyone has noticed by now and they crowd around Gerard on his way back to the dressing room. “But where are you going?”

“What is it?”

Sergio is peering into Gerard’s cupped hands. “Is it a frog? Can I see?”

“No,” Gerard says. “Back off.”

“It’s not a frog,” Busquets says, trailing after them in a bit of a daze. “It’s Cesc. I almost stepped on Cesc.”

Sergio looks at him like he’s crazy. “Is this a weird cule joke that I don’t get?”

Busquets snaps out of it. “No, it’s fucking Fabregas you idiot.”

“Fuck you,” Sergio says amiably, and then, to Gerard, “Is he serious? Is that actually Cesc?”

“No,” Gerard says. “Yes. Got to go.” and he breaks into a gentle jog, all the way back to the changing rooms.

\---

They don’t come out again and when the others come into the dressing room, Cesc is lying across a bench, his head against Gerard’s leg, looking distinctly sorry for himself.

Pepe comes in with his hands over his eyes. “Are you decent,” he says. “Is this going to be awkward for everyone?”

When neither of them respond he takes his hands down and Cesc gives him a long, wide-eyed look. Pepe concedes. “What’s wrong mate,” he says in English, leans down to him and puts his hands on Cesc’s cheeks. “What’s wrong baby.”

“Get off him,” Gerard says mildly, batting Pepe’s hands away. “He’s fine, he just wasn’t up to the rest of the session.”

He tugs at Cesc’s ear and Pepe cuffs him around the head.

\---

“Cesc is a goddamn fucking frog?”

It takes Xavi a while to clock on.

Puyol has an arm around his waist, holding him back, but it isn’t necessary. Xavi flails a little and then seems to lose the will and just stands there, making pained noises and grasping vaguely at Puyol’s arms.

“Cesc is a frog,” he repeats, and Cesc wrinkles his nose. “Well,” he says, “Not right now.”

“A frog,” Xavi says, looking increasingly desperate.

“I’m okay,” Cesc says. “It gets a bit annoying.”

“‘It gets a bit annoying’,” Xavi says, parroting everything back to Cesc. “You’re ‘okay’? What if it happens during a match?”

Gerard stops laughing when Xavi turns his gaze on him.

\---

It turns out that it only tends to happen to Cesc in the mornings. He doesn’t know why, only that it means he can’t sleep next to Gerard anymore for fear of unfortunate squishing incidents.

“How did it _happen_ though,” Xavi says, increasingly desperate.

“Xavi,” Cesc says, “It’s okay. It doesn’t happen in the evening.”

Xavi just stares at him. He spends a lot of his time these days just staring at Cesc from afar. Cesc is starting to feel judged.

“Now you know how I feel,” Iker says, waiting with him in the hotel lobby one afternoon, and Cesc laughs. “What?”

“Nothing,” Iker says, and then Xavi appears from nowhere and stares disapprovingly.

“Hey Xavi,” Cesc says, eyes darting to the side. “Oh, is that Gerard?”

He pads off down the corridor in his socks. Iker just rolls his eyes at Xavi. “Do you want to hang out and watch a film?” he asks.

“Our attacking midfielder is a frog,” Xavi says.

Iker calls for the lift.

\---

“How did it happen though?”

Puyol is hanging out in Cesc and Gerard’s room, which has been declared a Xavi-free zone. They’re looking through the morning papers. The headline writers have gone mad with the puns.

_SPAIN LEAPFROG INTO THE FINALS_

_SPAIN HOPS TO IT_

_THEY’RE HAVING FROGS LEGS FOR DINNER_

Gerard cracks up at them. Cesc is just confused. “How do they even know?”

“There were journalists at the training session,” Puyol says. “There are pictures of Gerard rescuing you from beneath Pepe’s hooves.”

Gerard falls sideways laughing and Cesc pets him absentmindedly. “We have no idea,” he says, picking up the thread of the earlier conversation. “I just woke up one day and I got in the shower and Gerard was brushing his teeth and I just turned right into a frog.”

“Lucky really,” he muses. “I mean that I was in water.”

Puyol ignores that non sequitur. “Did you eat anything weird the day before?”

“No man,” Cesc says. “I ate everything you did, I just ate the hotel stuff.”

“Well did you drink anything that wasn’t out of a sealed bottle?”

Cesc makes a face. “I wasn’t roofied,” he says. “I drank all my own drinks, unless you count drinking Geri’s drink, in which case he should be a frog too.”

“And anyway,” Gerard says, sitting up and pushing Cesc half off the bed in the process, “Since when does a drug exist that turns people into frogs? Come on Puyi.”

“Okay you explain it.”

“This is some full on fairytale magic shit,” Gerard says. Cesc nods emphatically. Puyol stares.

“You really believe that don’t you?”

“Do you have a better idea?”

“Mass hallucination?” Puyol says, weakly. Gerard holds up the nearest newspaper, with a big picture of Gerard holding a tiny frog Cesc in his hands.

“Fairytale magic shit,” he repeats, and looks pretty smug about it.

\---

“It’s pretty convenient that you only turn in the mornings.” Andres is leaning over an upturned cone that has been filled with water. Cesc is bobbing about in it, looking perfectly happy. He croaks.

“And that there are no adverse side effects.”

Andres is looking after Cesc while Gerard finishes up in the five-a-side. He’s lolling beside the fence at the far side from where the photographers linger, far enough away that they won’t see him chatting to a frog.

“Anyway,” he says, “I guess maybe you’ll get better from it, like the flu.”

\---

It doesn’t say a lot for the collective intelligence of Barcelona and the Spanish National Team that a whole week goes by before something clicks. They’re sitting in the only patch of shade and Cesc turns unexpectedly given the late hour of the day. Gerard is still in with the physio when he does, and by the time he returns to the group, all hell has broken loose. There’s jostling, shouting and a little petty shoving too.

He looms over them, hands on hips, and says, “You know, you could all really do with gaining a little maturity.”

The whole group jeers and someone throws something at him.

“Move,” Ramos says. “You’re standing on the start line.”

“I’m standing on the - what are you doing with Cesc?”

“He’s fine,” Ramos says, waving Gerard off. “We’re just having a little race.”

Gerard leaps at him, as Cesc leaps out of the way, and Cesc leaps into his path - wait.

“Wait,” Gerard says, with Ramos in a chokehold, flailing around. Gerard ignores him. “Why are there two Cesces?”

Ramos gasps something. Gerard loosens his hold a little. “That one’s not Cesc,” Ramos says, pointing at the one in front of Gerard.

“No,” Pepe says. “That one’s Cesc, _that_ one,” he continues, pointing at the frog that is hopping somewhat furtively off behind a kitbag, “That one is Not Cesc.”

Ramos frowns. “Are you sure?”

There’s an awkward silence around the group. Then Silva sidles over to Not Cesc and scoops him up. “Just in case.”

Gerard goes crazy. “Big deal,” says Ramos, when Gerard isn’t trying to strangle him. “One of them will turn back into Cesc, one of them won’t.” Then he twists out of Gerard’s hold and goes racing away across the field.

Silva, now with two frogs in his hands, wanders up to them when they stop to wrestle. “That is what will happen,” he says. “Right Gerard? Cesc will just pop back into a person?”

Gerard looks furtive.

“Or...” Silva says. “Do you have to-” Gerard leaps on him.

“The frogs!” Silva squawks, as one goes flying onto his head and one down Ramos’ shorts. “Oh god,” Ramos says, and leaps off down the touchline.

“That better not be Cesc,” Gerard says.

“Because you have to kiss him?”

Gerard buries his head in his hands.

“It really is like a fairytale,” Silva says, staring at him. “It’s really- it’s a lot-

“Gerard,” he says. “You weren’t by any chance-”

Gerard scowls at him. “What?”

“I have a call to make,” Silva says, and disappears.

“Asshole,” Gerard says, to make himself feel better mostly, and sets off after Ramos again.

\---

To his credit, David Villa sounds sheepish the moment he answers the phone.

“Well hey David,” he says. “Well, hey. Nice to hear from you.”

“Villa,” Silva says.

“Silva,” Villa says, but he can’t keep it up. “You know I’m kind of surprised that it took _you_ this long,” he says. “I mean the rest of them are thick as two short planks, but-”

“Let’s leave the insults for later okay,” Silva says. “I’ve got stuff to do. Were you planning to turn him back anytime soon?”

“Well I was thinking about it,” says Villa, “But it’s turning out to be a lot of fun. I got a hysterical call from Xavi, I get to make fun of Pique a whole lot more, my girls think the photos are really cute, and I bet you’ve got a kick out of Gerard kissing a frog on a daily basis.”

“Actually,” Silva says, “I don’t think anyone’s picked up on him having to do that. He’s been pretty discreet about it.”

“Asshole,” Villa says. “Goddamnit. Can you-”

“No, I can’t tell everyone,” Silva says, his firmness belied somewhat by amusement. “Stop being a dick and turn him back.”

“But David,” Villa whines, and Silva laughs.

“Why don’t you come here and hang out with us, cheer us on a bit instead of trying so hard to be one of the cool kids from the safety of your settee.”

“In that case,” Villa says, “I might as well wait till I get out there to change him back, I mean-”

Silva starts laughing again. “I have to go,” he says. “I’ll just leave you with this thought: I still have those photos.”

“What the fuck-” Villa says to the dial tone.

\---

Cesc stays Cesc for a while after that, although there’s a terrifying moment when Cesc doesn’t stay Cesc, rather, the frog stays a frog. Luckily Puyol realises they’ve been watching the wrong frog, and after a small search they find Cesc napping happily by a pond in the hotel garden.

He makes it all the way through the next day’s training, and the next day, and then they risk a trip into the town and he still doesn’t change.

Villa comes to their next game after that. He gives Cesc a longer hug than the others, and then meets Gerard’s slightly suspicious look with a full on glare. They stare each other down until Silva walks past and bumps into Villa, hard. “Oh hey David,” he says, acting surprised. “Sorry, didn’t see you there.”

Gerard looks at Silva, who is smirking like the cat who got the cream, Villa, who is looking somewhat furtively between Silva and Cesc, and Cesc, who is watching a fly on the ceiling.

Then he gasps, and Villa flees.

“What’s going on?” Cesc watches them race out of the dressing room.

“Don’t worry,” Silva says, patting his arm. “Do you want to go for a swim later?”

“Yes,” Cesc says, nodding fervently. “How did you know.”

 

END


End file.
